


Signs and Symbols

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Series: A very jizzjazz rewrite [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Breeding Kink, Dark Malcolm Bright, Domestic Fluff, Episode: s01e02 Annihilator, Established Malcolm Bright/John Watkins, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, JizzJazz, M/M, Murder Husbands, Pre-Mpreg, Pregnancy Kink, because Matilda Watkins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26486218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: Three family meals, two snake attacks, and a decision.---A rewrite of episode two for my established Malcolm/John series.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, John Watkins & Matilda Watkins, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright/Paul Lazar | John Watkins
Series: A very jizzjazz rewrite [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897057
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25





	Signs and Symbols

“Mrs. Watkins,” Malcolm says respectfully, only bothering with a slight smile for his husband’s sake, “why don’t you go catch up with John? I promised him I would make your famous meatloaf.”

Better than the slop she’d nuke for them otherwise. Malcolm never liked the dry loaf with much too thick a layer of sickly sweet ketchup topping, but he’s visited Matilda with John enough times to know the alternative is vile. He also knows she wouldn’t take kindly to him changing her recipes — the ones she oh so painstakingly wrote out in a notebook for him as a wedding gift. Unfortunately, this dish was always John’s favorite growing up.

She’s _insistent_ he take care of her Johnny the way he deserves.

Malcolm allows himself a quick scowl at her expense.

Blind as she is, Matilda titters and waves him off. “How many times do I have to tell you to call me Grandmother?” She reaches out in his direction to pinch his cheek as she’s wont to do.

Malcolm dutifully moves into the gesture. This is a concession he’s used to making for his husband. Anything to keep Matilda from getting uppity. It always puts a smile on John’s face when he sees him try. 

And John _is_ there, leaning against the doorframe, teeth flashing in a grin even though he’s aware there’s a hatred simmering under his husband’s compliance. “Malcolm’s a respectful man,” he says idly. 

They’ve both learned how to gloss over Malcolm’s real feelings over the years. It can be a real juggling act, making sure Matilda is appeased without being _too_ appeased. 

Of course, John’s presence quickly takes precedence over his husband’s, and Matilda flocks to him in a moment. 

Malcolm rubs his cheek and gives John a true smile for the distraction. Although he won’t get any actual peace until they leave this house in a few hours time, the hour or so he needs to prepare the abomination they’ll be eating for dinner will be a relief. John’s gotten quite good at keeping her busy until the food is on the table. 

And then, after, he’s quite good at keeping Malcolm from slaughtering her right then and there. He loves them both, unfortunately. John will keep the peace while they’re in his childhood home, and when they get back to the loft, back to the one place they can be _John &Malcolm_ without any of the masks, he’ll make it up to his husband. 

Malcolm ducks his head and grins as he pulls the ground beef from the grocery bag they brought with them. He can practically taste the musky saltiness of John’s skin, smell the two of them mixing together. 

At least he’ll have _something_ to sink his teeth into tonight.

It takes a lot of chewing to get the meatloaf down to a swallowable consistency. Malcolm doesn’t bother hiding his grimace. Beside him, John frowns around his own bite. His poor husband is used to much better food now, and even his old favorites have lost their nostalgic shine. 

(He flicked Malcolm in the forehead when Malcolm quipped that he saved John’s tastebuds so many years back, but he didn’t dispute it.)

Across the table, Matilda stabs at her meatloaf with a satisfied smile. It is, after all, made exactly the way she used to. “Well, I think it’s good,” she says, apropos of nothing. “That —” She waves her fork, a look of disgust on her face. “— _pig_ path was no good for my Johnny’s boy.”

Malcolm’s smile is more akin to a snarl.

John puts a hand on his knee. 

“Now you can focus on family,” she continues. Somehow, she manages to look directly at Malcolm’s face. Her expression is both excited and menacing. They’ve been married for years, and she’s never given up on this front. “Oh, Johnny will be _such_ a good father, don’t you think?”

Now _that_ , as much as it makes Malcolm’s molars grind together something fierce to admit, is something they agree on, though not in the way Matilda thinks. No, Malcolm knows John will be strict but kind, ready to share the family purpose to any child they’re blessed with — without any of the hideous mistakes his grandparents made. 

John is well aware that Malcolm would gut him if he ever installed locks on their closets.

And John would let him. 

“He will,” Malcolm says, and that’s that. The thought has crossed his mind in the last few days since he moved back, yes, but they haven’t had a chance to discuss children again as husband and husband. Matilda certainly has no right to know anything before they do. 

She spends the rest of the dinner dropping unsubtle hints about it.

John, truly the best husband Malcolm could have asked for, shifts the conversation away every single time.

When they’re back in John’s pickup, Malcolm leans his head against the window and watches the rain drip down the glass. His hands are loosely clasped around a tupperware of leftovers that will go straight into the trash as soon as they get home. His mind is elsewhere.

“Quarter for your thoughts?”

Malcolm huffs a laugh, watches the fog of his breath bloom on the glass. “Not a penny?”

There’s a soft tapping sound as John drums his thumbs against the steering wheel. “Forgive me,” he says languidly. “A _dollar_ for your thoughts?”

Taking his head away from the window, Malcolm gives him a fond look before sobering up. “You said you wanted kids.” 

They had that conversation back before they tied the knot. So many years ago… Malcolm hadn’t gotten into the bureau yet, had just shed his father’s name, and John was thinner, less like the hardy man he is today. Both of them wanted children — eventually. As the years passed and they spent so little time in the same city, the topic kept getting pushed off. 

But now Malcolm is home. 

“I still do, if that’s what you’re asking.” John hums, pulling his thoughts together. “Wouldn’t mind a couple munchkins with your eyes running around. If that’s what you want, little Malcolm.”

Does he? _I do_ catches on the tip of his tongue, sure and ready the same it was that day in the church John grew up going to every Sunday, but something stops him. Maybe he’s not ready. He thinks about his father, about the glee on the man’s face as he realized who his newest visitor was. He _refuses_ to repeat Martin Whitly’s mistakes. “Ask me in a few days,” he settles on.

John nods and parks on the street by the loft. 

His phone rings in the middle of a particularly steamy kiss. John’s arms are around him, strong and possessive, and Malcolm’s clutching onto him with a similar fervor. They’re taking their time. So far they’ve ridden the high of finally living together on a permanent basis, but now it’s really setting in. 

They have all the time in the world.

Or they would, if whoever was trying to get ahold of Malcolm would give up already. He groans and pulls away from the embrace, reaching behind him to feel for his cell on the bedstand. “Hello?” 

“Did I interrupt something?” his mother quips.

Malcolm closes his eyes, brushes his hair back. “Good morning, Mother.”

Beside him, John props himself up on an elbow and chuckles.

“John says hello, too.” 

There’s a beat. “What a peach.” She clears her throat. “Have you two had breakfast yet?”

John slips out of bed then. He pulls on his work clothes, a silent answer to the question she hasn’t asked yet. 

Malcolm sits up. “No, but John’s about to leave for work. Brunch?” He accepts a quick peck on the lips before his husband wanders over to the kitchen to make oatmeal. 

“You read my mind!” There’s an added lightness in her voice now that she knows it will just be her son joining her. “Adolpho will be there in about five, dear.” 

Knowing that she would have made an effort to include his husband otherwise, Malcolm lets it slide. He’s all too aware that his marriage will always be a sticking point. “I’ll be downstairs with bells on,” he says dryly. “See you soon, Mother.” He ends the call and puts his phone back on the bedstand. Getting dressed seems like such a chore, but he does it anyway. He pulls on a nice suit, slicks his hair back, trims his scruff. 

John gives him a slow once-over. “I never used to think I’d like those suits,” he says, taking an idle bite of his own breakfast. 

Malcolm snorts. “You don’t like the suits. You like taking me out of them.”

The only response he gets is a smirk.

Malcolm kisses it off him on his way out the door.

It’s nice to see Ainsley and their mother. They used to do brunch at least once a week, back before he left for the FBI academy. He suspects their mother will strong-arm them into picking that tradition right back up. 

And then Ainsley leaves in a rush to further her career.

Malcolm’s tempted to leave, to go to the precinct and ask Gil what’s going on and if he can get in on it. Instead, he chooses to be the good son and wait. 

Which is evidently the wrong choice, though he only realizes it as soon as his mother’s eyes soften in concern.

“You look exhausted,” she says, leaning in slightly.

He waves it off. “For the first time in ages, John and I are in the same place for more than a week.” He takes a sip of his tea. “I’m not sure we ever had the chance to go through our honeymoon phase.”

She doesn’t accept it. “Don’t lie to me, Malcolm. Even with my misgivings, I can see that man would bend over backward to take care of you. He wouldn’t let himself get in the way of your sleep if he could help it.”

The words don’t pass her lips, but he hears them anyway — _night terrors_. They started back before his father was arrested, back when Malcolm was still wrestling with the decision of what to do about Martin’s sloppiness, back before he picked up that phone and salvaged what rest he could of their family’s life. He can still remember the earliest ones. The cops would show up at the door. They’d have _four_ pairs of cuffs. 

His entire family would be damned for the stupidity of his father.

Malcolm knows Martin likely assumed he was struggling with the knowledge of his side job. His mother, on the other hand, must have decided all of them stemmed from the trauma his father handed down to him, especially when they grew in frequency after the arrest. Malcolm knows otherwise. His nightmares only shifted then. 

Gil, the poor man who saw Malcolm that day at the Whitly mansion, who felt he owed the boy his life, stuck around. He did what he could to help them despite what his superiors told him. He took on Malcolm like his own son.

And Malcolm was _terrified_ of him. Gil was a good person. Even then, Malcolm knew he was a better person than Malcolm himself. He truly did want to help. There was nothing off about his interactions with any of the three free Whitlys, nothing to suggest he had anything to gain. _That_ was the problem. How long would it take him to see the damage inside Malcolm? How long until he realized that the boy was destined to be just like his father? 

Malcolm often woke up screaming at the thought of being caught. Eventually, it was even more than that. He found himself sobbing at the idea of _disappointing_ Gil. Somewhere along the line, he started to see the cop as family. It was dangerous.

It still is. Malcolm dabs at his mouth with his napkin to drag out the moment. “If you’re asking if I’m having night terrors again, the answer is yes.” Now, he’s no longer a child. He’s an adult with a husband, a much closer relationship with his mentor figure, and overall so much more to lose. Sometimes he dreams he couldn’t hold back with Berkhead. Sometimes Gil personally locks him up in the cell with his father.

Sometimes John has to cut him loose the way Malcolm had Martin. 

“Are you being safe?” His mother’s concern shows in the creases on her face.

Malcolm nods. “John remembers what to do.” Just that morning, before they’d found solace in each other’s lips, his husband had to rub arnica on the red marks the cuffs left on his wrists and ankles. John is always ready to take care of him physically and emotionally, to reassure him he’d never be like Martin.

Thankfully, his phone rings before she can ask anything more. 

“You land a quadruple homicide and don’t call me right away?” Malcolm shakes his head, a smile on his face, and pats his chest. “I’m hurt, Gil.” He’s fallen in step with him the way he always used to as a teen. It’s comforting — especially in light of the nightmares.

Gil snorts. “There was a lot of paperwork, kid,” he teases. “Besides, I wasn’t sure you’d want to be called in again so soon. Figured you and John would be spending time together.”

“We are! But he knows this is an important part of my life.” Just as Malcolm wouldn’t try to pull his husband from his junkyard and all of his duties within, John would never dream of keeping him away from a case unless he has good reason.

Like a baby. There’d be no argument about him taking time off of active cases then, like a maternity leave. The only question would be _when_. He’s sure John will fight him on that, but even then, they’ll compromise. They always do.

Stopping short of the door, Gil gives him a fond look tinged with melancholy. “Just make sure it isn’t your _entire_ life.”

Malcolm nods solemnly, knowing exactly what — and who — Gil is thinking about. 

(None of them could have predicted the accident that took Jackie from them so early.)

Gil squeezes his shoulder and heads into the house. 

The scene inside is beautiful, a fucked up tableau of the rich and dysfunctional. Immediately, Malcolm notices the different meals on each plate. They’re half-eaten and likely barely enjoyed, if the atmosphere was as tense as he suspects it was. The most interesting part, however, is the father at the head of the table. He’s the one all of their eyes are drawn to. Malcolm suspects that’s how the man wanted it to be in life, and that’s what he got in death, too, but his lips are crudely sewn shut. All of the power in his grasp and yet his influence was cut off.

Fitting.

Behind him, Malcolm can hear the heated whispers of Gil’s team. They aren’t happy to see him, of course. He’s still confident things will work out. If the odds weren’t in his favor, Gil wouldn’t have brought him in on another case, so they must be open to his presence. At least he hopes so. Malcolm may not need friends when he has his family, husband, and Gil behind him, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t want a decent relationship with colleagues. 

Edrisa stops him from getting too close to Aristos. 

He understands. It certainly doesn’t stop him from feeling a rush of pride when she confirms so many of his suspicions. He loves that feeling, loves looking at a scene not of his own making and working it out, _knowing_. He walks around the table idly and thinks about —

His phone rings. His brows furrow as he answers the call, hating the interruption of his process. 

“My boy!” Of course it’s his father.

Malcolm bites back a groan and pushes down all of the conflicted feelings that try to rise. He hasn’t had enough time to work through the way their last visit affected him. It’s unsurprising his father wouldn’t want to give him that time. “Who gave you a phone?” he says flatly.

“Ah ah ah, not a phone. Phone _privileges_!” 

And naturally, his father uses them to call him. Malcolm grits his teeth and brushes him off. “I don’t have time for this.” He ends the call abruptly.

Gil’s gaze is concerned when it lands on him. 

“ _Snakes_!”

Malcolm’s head whips around. There’s an odd thrill that courses through him at the sight of what is undoubtedly a black mamba. A symbol of healing, transformation, rebirth. His favorite animal. The day John told him he couldn’t live with a snake was one of the sadder days of their courtship. 

Softly, purposefully, Malcolm moves towards Edrisa. His hand shakes with the excitement. He snatches the snake and catches her as she falls. He represses a smile. 

The serpent is also a smooth, deadly sign of fertility. Maybe the universe _has_ been trying to tell him something these last few days.

With a little digging, the question of who their family annihilator is seems all too obvious. _Disappointing_. Of course, Malcolm figured it wouldn’t be too difficult seeing as the murderer would have a solid reason to do what they did, a driving force, but they just started this case that morning.

He slips his hands into his pockets, noting the container with homemade air holes sitting in the back of their suspect’s car. Bingo. It’s probably still too early to contemplate handing out his own justice, especially considering the icy reception he got from the two detectives earlier. It doesn’t stop his mind from wandering. 

Liam Hauser has access to black mambas. Black mambas are quite dangerous. It would only take one slip up and then… dead. Liam wouldn’t go to trial, wouldn’t get a cell with his name on it, wouldn’t rot with the deaths of his entire family crushing his shoulders. Death by his own snakes sounds fitting for a man who forced his father to watch the poison set in. Not even Malcolm would do that. 

(Martin Whitly is much too dangerous to risk a slow death, if that’s what it comes to.)

And then, naturally, the idiot runs. 

Malcolm holds back a sigh when Gil orders him to stay outside. Based on the glimpse he caught of Liam’s trunk, he has a feeling he knows exactly what this building is used for, and he’s curious. He’s still riding the high of seeing — and touching! — a black mamba without a thick layer of glass between them. Who knows what other creatures Liam has inside. 

He gives in to temptation. The cages and tanks around him are filled with a wide variety of smuggled animals. There are fish, big cats, monkeys — and snakes. 

Across the room, Liam pokes his head above a stack of boxes nervously, prey surrounded by predators. They make eye contact. 

“We just want to talk,” Malcolm says, setting his trap. 

Liam turns heel and runs, and when he does stop, it’s only to stuff his hand into a container, to pull out a fistful of writhing snakes and chuck them in Malcolm’s direction.

They’re likely already pissed from being stuffed in the box. Malcolm throws himself to the side in a desperate attempt to avoid them, because, this time, he doesn’t have the advantage of a tablecloth and steady steps.

He will _not_ be telling John about this.

“Bright!” Dani stops, breathing rough, and stares at him with wide eyes as he stands. “Shit…”

Malcolm follows her line of sight to find the snake whose jaws are clasped around his wrist. The burn starts then, his body finally aware of the pain that begins spreading lickety-split. He removes it hastily. It can’t have been on him for too long, right?

As he hits the ground, the last thought in his mind is that John most definitely won’t be letting him get a snake now.

He dreams. Not all of his dreams in the past have been bad, but Malcolm Bright is no stranger to nightmares, night terrors. He stares up at Dani from the ground, the venom simultaneously paralzying his body and ripping through it like molten lava. He wants to ask for help. Why isn’t she helping him? Calling for backup?

Slowly, worried expression easing, she holsters her gun. She steps forward. Her footsteps are muffled by the blood rushing in his ears. Crouching down beside him, she meets his gaze. “I know who you are.” 

A snake slithers past her, over him. 

“I know _what_ you are.”

Malcolm can barely breathe.

“You’re not fooling anyone,” Dani tells him. She stands up and leaves him to die.

He wakes up screaming. He’s tied down in a white room, and the terror grips him as thoughts of Claremont cycle through his brain.

But this room is too nice for that. A nurse frantically persuades him to calm down. 

“My husband,” Malcolm croaks. “Please.”

She nods. “I think he just went to the bathroom.”

Sure enough, John is there in a moment, eyes wide, shoulders tense until he sees Malcolm resting against the hospital bed. “Figures you’d be awake so soon,” he says, half-exasperated, half-triumphant. 

The way the nurse colors is enough to tell Malcolm his husband warned them of his drug tolerance. Warned and was ignored. He turns to her, gives her an out. “Could I have some water?”

“Of course.”

John pulls up a seat as soon as she’s out the door. He reaches over to clasp Malcolm’s hand without thinking, their years of marriage making the action as commonplace as breathing. “They said you’ll be fine.”

Malcolm nods. He doesn’t feel as awful as he anticipated he would. “Can we leave?” The less time he has to spend in a hospital, the better. He remembers loving walking through these halls so long ago, trailing after his father and soaking in all of his wisdom. Now that feeling is curdled. 

“Sorry, little Malcolm,” John says with a grimace. “No can do. Doctor’s orders. Speaking of doctors… your phone rang a few times. Looks like your inbox is full.”

Malcolm freezes, and his stomach drops. “You didn’t answer, did you?”

Thankfully, John snorts. “Of course not.” He sighs. “But there’s only one person who would call you that many times. Martin always did talk about how much he loved his boy.”

Malcolm knew it was a mistake to visit his father. They both did. Hell, Gil did, too, and he knows his mother would flay him alive if she knew where he’d gone. Yet, he needed to, if not for the case then for himself. “My father’s not going to let up,” he says, resigned.

“You gave him an inch.” To soften the blow, John squeezes his hand. “Try to sleep. I’ll be here.” He leans over and kisses his husband’s temple with chapped lips.

Malcolm lets the drugs guide him into slumber again.

_Love drove me to have you._

The worst part is that it’s true. As he sits in the taxi on the way to the precinct, Claremont fading from view, his face turned towards the window, gaze unfocused, he knows it is. Oh, Malcolm doubts his father ever _really_ loved his mother. She was a pawn. A possession. A way to rise in status, and maybe he developed some fondness for her at some point, but that’s all it was. Is. 

His children, however… Malcolm knows better than anyone that Martin sees him and Ainsley as extensions of himself. Ainsley was never the focus, just a backup, but she’s a part of him all the same. 

And Martin certainly loves himself. 

Malcolm can’t say the same. He’s always focused on others — on family.

_Love drove me to have you._

He thinks again about the snakes. About Matilda’s prodding. About the box of condoms in the bedside table. He smoothes a hand down his shirt, past his flat stomach. 

_Love drove me to have you_.

Malcolm’s beginning to understand that. He and John need to have a conversation.

It’s the lawyer. He almost feels like laughing. _Of course_ it’s the lawyer. Mr. Littman was close with Aristos, probably looked up to him. He considered himself a part of the family even before confronting his employer. Liam certainly trusted him. How funny.

Malcolm can only imagine how Littman felt when Aristos turned him away. That must have been the turning point, must have made the lawyer realize he had two choices — lose the family he always wanted, or stop them before they could reject him further. Littman still loves them. Even now he’s defending Aristos in front of them. Malcolm can respect that, in a way. He’ll always care about his family, even if Ainsley and his mother and Gil find out what kind of person he really is. He loves his father, too, as much as he hates to admit it.

They all could despise him, but he’d want them safe. _Alive_. That’s where they differ.

Littman loves his wife and kids, too. That much is obvious. It’ll kill them to know what he did, but Malcolm finds himself okay with ‘sparing’ this killer. 

And then one of the girls falls off the swing. 

Littman hits the ground soon after.

“Bright,” Dani says quickly from where she is on the ground by the first daughter, “how much time we got?”

This is _disgusting_. Malcolm sneers as he strides away from the lawyer. His anger only grows as he crouches by the picnic table and gets a close look at the youngest girl. 

The entire scene around him fits the profile. He _shouldn’t_ be surprised. A family annihilator would never leave their family behind, and Littman had no intention of going to jail for anything. It was always going to end this way. He was sloppy. Obvious. Even without Malcolm’s profile, he knows Gil and his team would have pinned the lawyer. Littman knew it, too.

“I have a medkit in my car,” Dani yells at him. 

They stick the two girls and their mother right away. The gasping breaths they take soon after put a genuine smile on his face.

The smile disappears as he steps over Littman’s prone form. This isn’t one of Malcolm’s traps. No, the lawyer is in one of his own making. He’s shaking on the ground, the poison traveling through him, likely seconds away from stopping his heart. He’s never been the predator. Just a coward. When he locks eyes with Malcolm, it’s more blatant than ever. 

Malcolm crouches down, the last needle in hand. He stares at the mess of a man in front of him. There’s no sympathy on his face. If anything, there’s a hint of glee. 

_I know who you are._

“Don’t do it,” Littman whimpers.

But Malcolm has already made his decision. He knows what Littman wants. He knows what Littman _deserves_.

_I know_ what _you are._

“I don’t want to live,” the lawyer blubbers on.

Malcolm smiles — with teeth. “I know.” 

_You’re not fooling anyone._

The needle sinks in with ease, piercing right through Littman’s clothes and into the soft flesh of his thigh. It deposits the medicine that will save his life. No one will think twice about Malcolm’s actions here today.

Littman looks up at him with agony in his eyes. He’s lost.

The door shuts with a soft click. Sunshine flaps her wings at the sight of her daddy before settling down to preen her feathers. 

John looks over the back of the couch and grins. “You’re home early.”

Kicking his shoes off, Malcolm deftly loosens his tie. It whistles through the collar of his shirt. “I finished my case.” The strip of fabric pools on the floor soundlessly. His fingers slip button after button free.

“Looks like it was a good one,” his husband says in a low voice. He puts his book down and rises to his full height. It takes a few strides to reach Malcolm. John brushes his hands out of the way and takes over, sliding both shirt and jacket over his husband’s shoulders. 

Malcolm feels his lips curl up. It _was_ a good one. He’s still high off the look on Littman’s face, off the power that came with handing his judgement down. “I’m ready, dear.”

“Oh?” John tugs him over to the bedroom, eyes dark. “For what?”

“For you to fuck a baby into me.” Raising his hands, Malcolm shoves his husband onto the mattress. His pants and boxers slide down his legs with only a little encouragement, and then he’s climbing onto the bed, sitting on John’s lap.

John’s hand immediately finds his hips. The other cups the back of Malcolm’s neck and pulls him down for a messy kiss. He tangles his fingers in the soft hair at the nape, yanks him away. “Ask nicely, little Malcolm, and I might just.”

He’d do it anyway. They both know that, but Malcolm smirks. “ _Please_ fuck a baby into me.”

John huffs a laugh. With a quick shift, he rolls them over and presses his husband into the bed. “You’re going to be gorgeous,” he says roughly, “all swollen with my seed.” His cock is already thick and erect when he pushes down the band of his sweatpants. He leans over to fish the bottle of lube from the side table. 

Without prompting, Malcolm hooks a leg over John’s shoulder, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he wants to really feel him tonight. He curls the other around his waist. “Show me, then.”

That first slick push is heaven. He’d never say it aloud, never to his sweet, religious husband, but it’s true. Just the knowledge that John is fucking him bare is enough to make his toes curl. They’ve had sex several times since he came home. Never did he feel so full, so dizzy with pleasure from the start. Malcolm tries to pull him closer with his legs.

John nips at his lips with a deep chuckle. “So needy.”

“Only for you.”

That’s always gotten John going, and it doesn’t fail this time. His husband fucks him like he’s desperate, like he wants to bury himself in Malcolm, like he wants to _possess_ him. Good thing he does, just as Malcolm possesses him. The slap of skin against skin fills the room. His cock skates across Malcolm’s prostate, and John swallows every moan. 

They might not be able to do this in a few months. They’ll have to pick positions with more room for his stomach, that doesn’t require him to curl up so much, and _that’s_ what gets Malcolm. He’s naturally quite lithe. He’s going to be _so_ full of John’s baby. His nails scratch at the back of his husband’s neck. 

Breaking away from the kiss, John grins down at him. “Let me help you with that.” He slides a hand between them, wraps it around Malcolm’s dick. The pace is unrelenting. He strips his cock until he’s squirming and gasping, until his nails draw blood. 

“John,” Malcolm shouts when he comes. His legs strain with the effort of holding his husband close. 

John doubles down. He fucks him harder, faster. He kisses lips slack with pleasure and fills Malcolm up with a groan. 

They lay there for a moment, still attached, their breathing choppy.

Eventually, John pulls out. He’s quick to shove a pillow under Malcolm’s hips, much to his husband’s amusement. “I’ll get a washcloth.” He pecks him on the lips. 

Malcolm relaxes into the bed. He smiles sleepily at John as he walks back in with a wet cloth and a plug. “Do you think it took?” 

“Only time will tell.” With a gentle hand, his husband cleans him off. He eases the plug in and removes the pillow. The bed dips under him.

Untucking the blanket, Malcolm shifts back into him, settling into being the little spoon the way he often does. It’s comforting, honestly. He loves having John at his back, draped over him.

And John does wrap an arm around him. His palm rests on the still flat stomach. His fingers wander. “I love you, little Malcolm.”

“Love you, too, dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> This turned out longer than I expected! Future episodes will be much shorter, depending on what happens in them, but this one was pretty important.


End file.
